Lavender

Lavender

It’s not the blood 

that makes her turn red

but the pride,

or the embarrassment of it.

Sitting in a dolls house

lavender couches of

oak like plastic, 

fake dust

in a fake room.

And the brandy she stole

doesn’t taste

the sweeter,

salt;

a guarantee

her shoes will be

here come morning.

The bleach of her skin,

the possibilities

that there will never

be anything better.

She lights a cigar,

and blows out the candle

painted on the wall.

Her life

cracking like acrylic.